Sweet Dreams
by moonlighten
Summary: 2011: Sharing a bed with Scotland is a skill, and one France never had the patience to learn when he was younger. (Scotland/France.) One-shot, complete. Part 62 of the Feel the Fear series.


**2011; Edinburgh, Scotland**

-  
>Sharing a bed with Scotland is a skill, and one France never had the patience to learn when he was younger.<p>

In the first flush of infatuation, when their stolen moments of intimacy were few and far between, sleep was such an unwelcome intrusion on their time together that France fought against it just as staunchly as Scotland ever did.

And as the years passed and the bloom faded from that rose, so too did France's tolerance for broken nights as Scotland thrashed and whimpered his way through dreams that he insisted, despite his thundering heart and wide, fear-filled eyes, disturbed his mind so little that he could not recall a single detail of them upon awakening.

He had found those evasions more tiresome than even the most violent of Scotland's night terrors, because they seemed to him then to be just another example of Scotland's unwillingness to allow him knowledge of anything beyond his body. It was easier, on both his own body and his heart, that they slept apart, and so they had retired to separate beds for the two centuries their poor excuse for a relationship had continued to limp along before France finally found the courage and resolve to grind down his heel and crush what little life remained in it.

Despite Scotland's ground rules for this new arrangement of theirs, this particular compromise – which France had always thought practical, if not ideal – was one he was seemingly unable to accept.

France had tentatively suggested it after three mornings in a row of being wrenched from his own dreams by a swift knee to the small of his back, and though Scotland had very quickly told him, 'Aye, okay, if that's what you want,' the experience and understanding he had lacked as a youth – and even, he was ashamed to admit, the previous year – had taught France to listen to his tone of voice at such times and not what he was actually saying.

Accordingly, he had resigned himself to either enduring the inevitable bruises, or else staying on alert and simply catnapping until Scotland's equally inevitable dawn rising made the bed safe to spread out in, starfish-like, as he preferred.

Over the months that followed, however, he began to perceive a pattern in Scotland's bedtime routine; one that was uniform enough that he could exploit it to both of their advantages.

Tonight, as every night they've shared since then, his preparations begin in the instant that the arm tucked around his waist slackens its grip.

He catches Scotland's hand before it drops away from its open-palmed splay across his stomach, and weaves their fingers together. In response, Scotland makes a low, contented noise that reverberates along the portion of France's back which is moulded tight against Scotland's chest.

(It reminds France of Duchesse's purring; an observation he has never divulged to Scotland for fear it would then make him too self-conscious about it to ever continue.)

After the rumbling stops, no matter how scratchy with tiredness his voice is, or how deep his exhaustion has set in, he will kiss France and say, 'I love you', or '_Je t'aime_' or '_Tha gaol agam ort_'. There is no rhyme or reason behind his choice, at least none that France has been able to discern; only that it appears he needs the sentiment to be the very last one that passes both of their lips before he can bring himself to relax.

Tonight, he says, "I love you," his mouth still pressed so closely to the back of France's neck that the words are barely intelligible.

"I love you, too," France says, squeezing his hand gently.

For a moment, Scotland's smile lingers against his skin, but its warmth gradually dims as Scotland's head falls against his pillow.

France's muscles grow taut in anticipation as he listens to the slowing cadence of Scotland's breathing, because timing, now, is critical. If he moves too soon, then he will likely startle Scotland into full wakefulness, and they will have to repeat the entire cycle before he can settle back down again. If he leaves it too long, then the whole exercise is rendered moot, as Scotland – who runs purely on fumes most days – can drop into a deep enough sleep to dream seemingly within seconds of closing his eyes.

When he hears the telltale catch in Scotland's throat, he delicately pulls away from Scotland and shuffles inch by cautious inch across the bed until he reaches its far side. He keeps hold of Scotland's hand for a beat or two longer, and then eases it away from him, too.

Scotland's fingers twitch a little, perhaps in protest, but eventually he draws his arm back and tucks his freed hand beneath his cheek alongside its twin.

Even though the mattress beneath him and the duvet above him are icy cold this far removed from the natural furnace of Scotland's body, France's own breathing calms.

Sleep will come quickly, just so long as tonight, like all those other nights, he doesn't let himself wonder if things could ever have been easier between Scotland and himself the first time around if he'd learnt this simple bit of patience centuries ago.


End file.
